The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

The cafe was bustling with customers on a Sunday. I ordered a milkshake and gazed at how beautifully the day gave way for the night to arrive. When the milkshake was delivered to my table after a whole twenty minutes, I took a nice long sip and was devouring the happiness when I could sense the shift of change in the atmosphere. A customer had entered and suddenly the air was sucked out of its components and replaced with confusion and unwarranted hate. A transwoman. She was different, said every nudge, every whisper, and every stare. She was different, as we all are and as we all take pride in. But she was really different, they reminded her. I wondered whether people really embraced the ideology that we are all different from each other.  She sat across from me. Suddenly I felt a huge rush of emotions and thoughts playing inside me. Was I scared of how people would react? Was I worried about how she'd feel ? Was I anxious about what I wouldn't be able to do? I glanced at her

We all think about tragedies. It doesn't necessarily have to happen to us, it could be anyone's. Maybe it is an underlying feeling in ourselves borne out of sympathy. No, is it empathy? The way we dwell in the sorrow of others like we have none of our own makes me want to believe in the world. Even if it would be a sad one.  When I see someone in pain, I hope that this isn't the first time tragedy has struck them. I hope it is the fourth or fifth or second time because by then you'll slowly learn how to cope with it. And the fact that we have to is saddening by itself but aren't we all done trying asking for things to be better? Aren't we all tired of kneeling and praying in front of everyone and everything that makes us want to believe in hope again? Aren't we all tired of making closed rooms, taps running and walls our solace? Aren't you?  But the first time. The first time strikes as loud as the clock strikes twelve at night, a feeling of unknown impe

Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself all day long  Only to find myself succumbed amid Words, poems, people and minute things, Glamourising every inch of the letter, rhyme, Body and feelings. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself when I come across  romanticization of emotions by famous poets and writers, Does a person make you feel like that? Do I have to feel like that to know it's love?  Because the last time I knew I was in love, I was just happy, you know. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself as I listen to songs about heartbreak. Should I ache with every bit of my soul  And immerse myself in tunes of sorrow and remorse? Should I rock myself to sleep with every scenario playing in my head? Because the last time I felt heartbreak, I felt so very sad looking at them, you know. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself as I watch the rain without a care in the world. My mind so empty and full of thoughts That I star

"My muse? What a strange thing to ask." I said, looking deeply into the eyes of the person sitting across me. She looked a bit intimidated and I felt an unease nudging in myself to relax the mood.  "I mean, what a wonderful thing to ask." I said with a sigh. She reminded me why I stopped conversing with people in the first place; the impending idea of being nice to everyone was eating me alive. It didn't come as easy as before. When she asked to meet, I said yes because I was tired of how I saw the world and I desperately needed to watch it with someone with different ideas to save myself. I recognised her as soon as I stepped into the cafe. It was hard not to notice her with her bright yellow dress that had hundreds of small cars on it. I caught a glimpse of myself through the glass doors as I prepared to leave. So different. So very different. I took a deep breath, turned around and walked toward her table.  "Hey. Did I make you wait for long?" I ask

A bell in the back of my mind, It keeps counts, one, two, three, The numbers are lost on me now Stitching itself onto my skin,my eyes my conscience, my love. The closet I finally opened has locked me from inside In a bigger, vulnerable, scarier closet. I have nightmares of how people look at me, like A person that doesn't deserve to love Or to be loved. All because of the gender I chose. Four, five, six, I live in a bed of lies, the pillows Have collected the truths I cry about, My sexuality is hidden under the carpet Of understanding It screams everytime someone knocks on the door Only to be muffled by fibres of insecurity And lack of reassurance. Seven, eight, nine I could see the change in people's eyes When I finally walked out They never looked at me the same. My heart pushed me forward Telling me I deserve everything I deserve to experience as much as the next person My life was in shackles but my heart was free And little by little, it help

 I have always hated endings. Be it a sad movie, a car ride, a lunch date, a conversation, the mere inevitability that all things come to an end. Be it good or bad. The bolt of relief for the latter immediately being replaced by ingratitude.  But I have always loved beginnings and the 'in-betweens'.  The last time I went for a car ride, I couldn't stop thinking how much the music had affected my surroundings. A happy song lifted the spirits of everyone inside and outside, in the middle it was like the whole world had become a part of a big musical if they liked it or not, but the end was always a disaster. The people still rushing by without even giving a thought to the end beat, the trees swaying way too energetically for an ending, the snoring of your sibling sitting right next to you, you just know this was not the ending you wanted. It's the same with any trip. Even though I fuss a lot about the whole journey, I secretly love sitting in the same position until I fee

The world is spinning around so fast around me, I feel like I am not even a part of it. But here I am in an overpriced dress, sitting in a coffee shop, holding the coffee cup a little too tightly, taking occasional sips and pretending that it was saving me. Is this even my favourite coffee shop? Why does the coffee taste like this- a little sway from being perfect? It irritates me even more. I know something can be done to fix the coffee but I can't exactly point it out. My life feels the same. Should I take control and ask them to make me another cup? Oh, the girl looks naive. I will just chuck it. I was getting late anyway. Maybe that is what is wrong with me. Pointing it out.  When your love life is a mess, the last place you want to be is at a wedding. Is it just me or is the happiness in the room pissing all of you? It's just me, it's just me. Why does everything look like a reminder that I am unhappy. I need to get out of here. I will just collect myself and be there

Chapter - 3  A small note. I can't seem to remember the last time I felt like I wanted to disappear, which is a good sign. Disappear as in not an attempt for people to understand my worth, but just to erase the whole existence. When I think of it now, I feel like I was cruel to myself.  To Lily, I am sorry to have let you believe that you were in this alone for as long as I could remember. I know things would have been much better for you if only I'd answered those cries for help. I am glad that you stood up for yourself when they shamed you, even though you had to face consequences for the way you talked. I wished to console you but you were thinking about it too, like I was - was it true what they said? Was it really true? I cried a little when I saw you look in the mirror, never shredding a tear because you were used to it.  I am sorry that I let you believe that you couldn't love yourself, let alone others . The thoughts we had that you would always be a passer-by in ev

Chapter 2: Hate. Hate is such a strong word. I could never bring myself to look someone in the face and say 'I hate you' and mean it. But I have met people who could and it frightens me. The mere possibility of someone being filled with dread and anger at the thought of someone else. I always ask why, why do you hate them but the answers always go over my head. It scares me even more because I know it might be possible for me, for me to hate a person. Here's a story.  My grandma and I have these sessions in the afternoon where we talk until one of us falls asleep. We tell stories, talk about the day, talk about the future and sometimes about the past. One such afternoon, she decided to tell me a story. I still believe to this day that it was the comforting sunlight that gave enough warmth as a mother's breast, or the coolness of the pillow that would rock me to sleep, or the strange assurance of a listener that would be present till the end of the story, was what gave h

This is it. Chapter 1: Skies. I don't remember the first time I fell in love with the sky, but I vaguely remember why. I had a very poor eyesight and my eyes would always be glued to the ground. I knew something was wrong but was so hesitant as to seek anyone's help. When I knowingly started shifting to the first benches in classrooms and scrapping my knees every so often, I decided to tell my mother. I still remember that day. The day I got my first pair of spectacles, I looked away from the ground and then up. It was such a beautiful sight and I felt loved. It filled my little heart with so much glee to see such refined colours. And my first thought was 'Is this how everyone sees?' . Strange, isn't it? What's even more strange is the fact that I enjoy watching the sky alone. Not with a group of friends, or with a lover, or with someone who needs a shoulder to cry on. But alone. I was and still am afraid to share somethin g so magnificent an

I feel like a 13year old when I see a park, a 16-year old when I am on a swing and feel my whole body lift off the ground, 19 years old when my heart fills with joy at the resonating sounds of laughs about how stupid I look. I was 13 years old when I saw you in a different light for the first time, thought it wasn't love because I had no insects in my stomach,but you felt like my person and somehow that wasn't enough, 16 year old when I almost gave my number to the most sweetest guy I know, felt like a 19 year old when I realised that I didn't want to go through any of it again. I feel like a 13 year old whenever I cry, 16 when I tell myself I shouldn't cry in front of others because I am old, 19 when I realise I can cry even more and loudly this time around. I was 13 years old when I loved to talk with people, all swarmed around me, 16 when I finally started opening up to people, 19 years old when I realise I crave for a talk over dinner and beach visits with my f

I wake up from what seems like a long sleep. My body is too tired to move. Before I open my eyes, I stretch my hands to reach out to my bedside stand so as to grab my spectacles. It had become a habit almost, not allowing myself to see with my weak vision. It had worsened throughout the years. I can feel how weak I have become. My hands brush past the stand, wait it was a table, unfamiliar texture. I knock down something, which wakes up someone sitting on a chair beside my bed. I open my eyes, I can barely make out my mom from the mirage of her familiarity. She tells me everything is okay which clearly implies that it is not. I ask for my spectacles. She hands them over to me. The first thing I notice is her face. Dried tears. I caress my weak hands over her soft skin. "Why are you crying?" She burst into sobs of tears and fears. She runs out, leaving me alone. Is it right to leave a dying person alone? Dying. It doesn't matter anymore. I  still remember how I sc